


Rhythms of Paris

by TheBlackWook



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Bittersweet, Christmas Swape Exchange, Fitting-in, Gen, I tried my best, New Team, Paris Saint-Germain F.C., Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 11:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackWook/pseuds/TheBlackWook
Summary: Turin had always been such a constant, for almost half of his life, he never would have thought that he would leave it someday and begin a new adventure somewhere else.





	Rhythms of Paris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cucolla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cucolla/gifts).



> Hi there !  
> This fic is dedicated and made for cucullas as one of her presents for the Christmas Swape Exchange. I tried stepping out of my comfort zone (a bit) writing about a team I don't follow so I hope it'll still be enjoyable and to your liking. Happy Holidays !

Paris…  
It sounded like a soft melody, new music to his old ears. 

He put one of his suitcases down and stopped, unaware – or deliberately ignoring – of the people around him, taking the time to listen to the rhythms of the city. 

His new city.

His new club.

It all felt weird to think about it. Turin had always been such a constant, for almost half of his life, he never would have thought that he would leave it someday and begin a new adventure somewhere else. After so long a time, he thought he would simply end his career there, celebrate with the fans and jump in with a board position; that was the plan. But as he had learnt over the years, there was no such thing as a plan and life was made of little surprises, every day, waiting around the corner. 

Paris was one of them. 

Leaving Turin was harder than he would have thought. The ache in his heart was still fresh, he still had the crying fans in his mind; he still felt the tight embrace of his teammates – his friends, his brothers – on his body, if he thought about it. He was leaving his family and it both felt exhilarating and scary. He felt like a young boy leaving for his first school trip, determined to shows just how grown he is and yet, still clutching his mother’s hand. 

He shook his head slightly. He had freely chosen to come here and he was a man of his word, there was no going back, now. It was nice to leave the comfort zone for once and rediscover the joy of being a new player in a group, a person in a new city, a new country. 

Besides, Turin was only a little more than an hour away, he could fly back any time he wanted to. 

 

At the end of the summer, he had been so sure of what was ahead : qualify Italy for the world cup, win a fourth double with Juve and, this time, add that fucking Champions League to his collection, take part in his sixth world cup, give his all and then, take one last bow on the green grass, salute the net, to whom he had turned his back some twenty-eight years ago, one final time and hang up his gloves. 

Come November and Sweden, he’s already not so sure anymore. He had lost it on live television, he could not hide it, what else was he supposed to do ? He felt it was all his fault, if he had not taken that goal in Sweden maybe, just maybe, things would have gone differently, they wouldn’t have had the pressure, Ventura could have made better choices – anything, really. It made him think back to Old Trafford for a few days. He did his best to push the thought away.

The games against Madrid had been a cruel cold shower. He barely regretted what he had said because, although they had come out under the influence of his emotions, his words still were true. He only grimaced at them, now, when he thought of the kids who looked up to him. That was the only reason he remotely felt remorse. 

As the season was nearly wrapped up, he sat in the dressing room after a training session, one single truth in his mind.

He still loved the game, he still wanted to play. Simple as that. 

He looked at ‘Tek, laughing with Stephan and challenging Andrea. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do that to him. He could have gone anywhere in Europe but he chose Juventus out of all his options. He was willing to play less, learn from him and then spread his wings, taking over as had been planned. 

Gigi would not be the one to cut them.

That day was the day he realised that if he wanted to keep on playing, he would have to leave. Leave a club and a city that had been a home for the last seventeen years. Leave a home that had seen him go through hell and rise again, like a phoenix and had never stopped loving him. 

He almost cried when it hit him. Not really because he was sad, although he was, he really fucking was, but rather because something was coming to an end and change was always frightful, however old and experienced he was. 

At least, that gave him the opportunity to get used to the idea, even in so short a time. 

When Paris had first contacted him, he had listened carefully for the first time in almost twenty years.

 

His new teammates are young. They’re all so young he almost feels like a dinosaur. He can’t recall Juve being this young. He had never really thought himself as old. When he began in Parma, he was just a kid, barely a man. When he joined Juve, there was the front guard with Alex, Ciro, Gianluca and others; he felt the presence of all the legends of the club so much that, in the process, he had not really thought about his age. Taking over after Alex had only felt like the natural order of things, not a step further into a closed circle of a supposed old guard of football. 

When he looks at them all, all he sees is children, carefree and easy smiles on their faces. It’s a change from Vinovo where everything is so serious and so intense all the time. They laugh of course, they joke and they do pranks – sometimes – but in Italy, the atmosphere is so much more hardcore than in France. It’s different, it’s fine. It’s refreshing and that’s all what he signed for. 

Change is still bittersweet, it is still incredibly unsettling to fit in a new city, learn a language he barely knows, however close Italian and French are. But it’s all right.  
It will be.

Marco wraps an arm around his back, coming out of the dressing room. “You’ll see, you’ll like it here. Nice club, nice city, nice life.” He smiles up at him. “Lots of museums. But you must already know that.”

They both chuckle and Gigi hugs him quickly. He really has grown ever since the young boy he had been when he had first joined the French capital and the national team at the same time. He’s still the same cocky boy but deep down he cares, Gigi knows that. Jogging to the centre of the training pitch feels less lonely with Marco at his side. It is not scary as he had thought out there; maybe, Paris will be a better parenthesis than expected, after all. He has a good feeling about it.

 

He never gave too much attention to numbers, he was not particularly superstitious, unlike some of his teammates over the years – go ask Inzaghi or Rino for that. However, when he enters the pitch for the first time with another number than the single “1” he had known for so long, it feels weird, almost unnatural. The game does not really go as planned, he concedes way too much for his liking. He doesn’t want to blame it on the number, but a small part of him does anyway : strikers do have their own little rituals so why not goalkeepers ? 

It really is not a great game, far from it. But they have half the usual squad with all those who are still at the world cup or on holidays, that’s what Tuchel said. Still, there is this ball at the pit of his stomach, a ball of frustration that he has not done enough and he did not meet expectations for his first game. 

Trapp comes to him in the dressing room. He is a nice boy, if only maybe a bit reserved. Gigi likes him all the more for it. He is the one with his number – if someone could claim a particular number in life that is – but getting to know the man, he is not even remotely mad. How can he be ? It is just a number after all, nothing supposedly too defining. 

“You’re the true number one. Don’t worry about the game.” He offers with a sincere smile and shyness almost. 

He knows many a goalkeeper took example on him, were inspired by him, whatever his place in their heart. That’s why he always gave so much to the fans, why he stayed in Serie B, why he always takes the time with everyone : because somewhere, there might be a kid watching and at his own level, he can make even the tiniest difference. They all can. That might be his favourite part of the job after being on the pitch, obviously. 

He pats his shoulder kindly and nearly blushes like a teenager despite his forty years of age. “Thank you, Kevin, I appreciate it.”

He knows what his presence may cause to him, he is fully aware of it. He feels sorry for him but at the same time, he loves confronting himself to younglings, challenging himself to the kids and notice he still has it in him to be at the top. 

Come a couple weeks later and Trapp stays true to his words. Number one is once again shining on his back, like an old friend coming home after what felt like an eternity. 

He wishes him the best with Frankfurt. Sometimes, he just wished football would be less cruel. 

 

He tends to stick with Marco.

It is not even really conscious and it is not for lack of affection for his new teammates but Marco is the closest to home he has in Paris, now. He finally gets to experience what he had read in books : when you go abroad, you notice fellow countrymen faster and you feel like home with them. Gigi receives it like a huge slap on the cheek. 

He’s already turning the left one for more. 

He misses Italy a lot and go back there often but he would not change a thing. Paris is so different from Turin : it is wild, wonders at every corner and so many colours : he feels an underlying feeling of unadulterated freedom, one similar to the youth who feels invincible – one he had not felt in a long time. Maybe it’s time or experience, he is not sure himself what it is, but he finds a newfound stability in the French capital, spending his free time admiring paintings and arts or simply sitting on a bench in Place des Vosges, looking at life unfolding before his very marvelled eyes. It makes him feel like a child again, it makes him feel alive.

“You sound just like Salva.” Marco tells him once.

Gigi laughs, because of course he does and of course Marco remembers his time with his fellow countryman. It is true they share more than just clear blue eyes. They are both calm and easy-going, a book never far from them and they are both crazy as well – only crazy players choose to become goalkeepers. He lives within the city, amongst the crowded streets and busy markets, just like his friend used to : that is the only way they know to practice and improve their French quickly, be close to the diverse cultural events and live the Parisian life fully. 

He never tires of it.

 

“Honestly, man, it’s so crazy that we’re playing together !”

Kylian has said that a lot already. Gigi does not mind. It is crazy for him as well. Two years ago, he exchanged his shirt with an eighteen year old boy almost too shy around him and now, look at him, he is a World Cup winner, breaking every records and already battling with the greatest players. It’s kind of overwhelming to realise how much he has grown since that night in Monaco, how much he has learnt, how his life has changed and yet, still be the same carefree and polite young man. He feels a sudden urge to protect him, to guide him as much as he can, like a father would to a son. It’s instinctive, almost primal. He has always done this, has always loved to fill in the role of the big brother or, as time went on and his kids were born, the role of a father figure. 

“When I was born you were already playing ! You’re immortal !” He says that excitedly, stars in his eyes.

Gigi chuckles loudly and affectionately wraps his arms around Kylian. “Im not. Nobody is.” 

He does not mind, though. His innocence on certain points is heart-warming : he sounds just like one of his sons. 

“For the record, it’s crazy for me too.” He adds and gives him one of his trademark kiss on the head.

The young man laughs and escape the embrace like a child trying to avoid the smothering of his parents. He will do so much – so, so much – Gigi is sure of it. He can feel it; he’s been around long enough to recognise talent and the potential to climb the highest mountains. What he can do for now is be there for him, should he need him.

 

He misses Giorgio and Andrea like hell. If he thinks about it, he misses Juventus like hell, but he can’t really say that, can he ? Besides, Paris is nice, he likes it here. But his two friends… He has played such a long time with these two making sure no one can come close to him, it feels foreign to have another pair in front of him. 

Sometimes, he has to catch himself before he shouts either of their name out of habit.

Step by step, though, he makes quite the team with Thiago and Marqui. He already knew them in fact, especially Thiago from his Milan days. It is nice to be the teammate of such a good defender, to be friends after having been rivals on the pitch. At least, rivals by their team but, to be fair, Gigi had always had a lot of friends in the Milan team – or in any other team for that matter – to leave the rivalry to the fans. 

Marquinhos is young and full of creativity and reactivity; Thiago is closer to Gigi’s age, the same as Giorgio, and he is all experience and discipline. He couldn’t have asked for another pair of defenders. 

Sometimes, when they’re on the pitch, he can almost imagine himself back in Italy, shouting in Italian to the both of them in the urgency of crucial situations. They do the same, although they all try more and more to switch to French. It is still shaky for him but, what challenge hasn’t he face before ? He will not back down.

What he likes is the two of them popping in in his Parisian flat when his wife and kids are in Italy and they spend long evenings chatting and watching some Serie A game for old time’s sake – he can’t believe Juventus is actually an _“old time”_ now – and sharing a good home-made carbonara sauce on spaghetti, Gigi’s best dish according to his own words – and that of old and new teammates.

Sometimes, they invite Ney – everybody seems to be calling him that – and he always make sure to add extra good humour to the gathering. It’s carefree and sweet, it makes them feel good. Slowly, Gigi is fitting in with all the guys in the team. It almost feels foreign, he thought it would have taken a longer time. Not that he thought it would be difficult, he always prided himself in his good and easy-going nature but, after spending seventeen years in the same place, with some bonds that would last a lifetime, he only figured it would have taken a longer time to feel more like one of the team and not simply a guest. 

He finds it is a nice feeling to remember. 

 

He’s been there for five months, now, they’ve been cruising in Ligue 1 and managed their way out of the group stage of the Champion’s. They have a nice group, he likes them. He sees all the little ones coming up to challenge the elders and all this mix blends pretty well. Some reminds him of how long he’s been out there on the grass, like Timothy – he was his age when he clashed with his father, crazy. Some reminds him why he loves turning his back to the goal, like Alphonse. God, does he love that kid. He is of great talent and he is soft-spoken. They talk almost every day, the young man confides in a lot to him. It is difficult sometimes, seeing his only presence in the club challenges his place but it never goes between them : this is a conversation between Alphonse and the board and he perfectly knows it. Gigi appreciates that and likes him even more for it.

“Stop that.” Marco tells him but he’s smiling nonetheless.

“Stop what ?” He answers with a smile of his own, glancing at him before taking another look at his teammates on the pitch. 

“You have your sappy uncle face.”

“My what ?” 

“That face you have when you look at us younglings and you think you obviously _need_ to protect us.”

“So now you’re complaining ? Don’t remember that was the case when you arrived in Coverciano.”

He pulls the short man into a hug and ruffles his hair, blatantly ignoring his protests that come out in between laughters. He has grown closer to Marco over the last months, he was bound to in a way. He keeps a careful eye on him and does not hesitate to guide him onto another path than some of his excess. But overall, it’s nice having a fellow countryman with him and to hear him filling him with the latest gossips within the Italian squad. 

“For the record,” Marco says without looking up at him, “I wasn’t complaining.” He winks before he dashes off to jump on Edinson’s back. 

Kids.

This is nothing like Juventus and it never will be but, Gigi thinks, Paris might become an agreeable home, even for a short time.

**Author's Note:**

> A few things if you're not familiar with either Juventus or Gigi Buffon's career :
> 
>  _"Come November and Sweden..."_ => sadly refers to the World Cup Qualifyer play off between Italy and Sweden and that Italy lost, making it the first time in 50 ~~fucking~~ years that Italy did not qualify for the world cup.
> 
>  _"It made him think back to Old Trafford..."_ => Refers to the Champions League final of 2003 held in Old Trafford between AC Milan and Juventus. Juventus lost during the penalty shoot-out even though Gigi had saved two. After that, Gigi fell into a huge depression which he got out of thanks to therapy and paintings from Marc Chagall. He has always been open about it and has talked extensively on the matter.
> 
>  _"The games against Madrid..."_ => Refers to the UCL Quarter-final of last season between Juventus and Real Madrid. Juventus had lost 0-3 at home but managed to lead 3-0 at Bernabeu for the return game. While they were heading to extra time, the referee whistled a very controversed penalty kick at the very last second in favour of Madrid and sent off Gigi at the same time, barely leaving Wojciech Szczęsny time to warm up and face the penalty. Madrid scored and eliminated Juventus. After the game, Gigi said the ref had "a garbage bin in place of his heart." To this day, Gigi has never won the Champions' League.
> 
>  _"why he stayed in Serie B..."_ = In 2006, after a huge match-fixing / influence on referees scandal concerning many teams in Serie A, Italian first league, Juventus was relagated in Serie B, Italian second league. While many players left like Gianluca Zambrotta or Zlatan Ibrahimovic, a handful of players stayed : Gigi Buffon, Alessandro Del Piero (both recent world cup winners), David Trezeguet, Pavel Nedved and Giorgio Chiellini, making them literal legends in the heart of the fans.
> 
> NAMES
> 
> Vinovo = Former training centre of Juventus up until the 2017/2018 season. They are now training at Continassa. The youths and women's teams still train and have their home games there.  
> 'Tek = Wojciech Szczęsny's nickname, Juventus goalkeeper  
> Giorgio = Giorgio Chiellini, Juventus centre-back and current captain  
> Andrea = Andrea Barzagli, Juventus centre-back  
> Stephan = Stephan Lichtsteiner, right-back (now playing at Arsenal)  
> Alex = Alessandro Del Piero, attacker, former Juventus captain. Gigi became captain after him. (currently pundit, managing lots of businesses)  
> Ciro = Ciro Ferrara, former Juventus left and centre-back (now coach, pundit and managing a pizzeria in Turin)  
> Gianluca = Gianluca Pessotto, former Juventus defender (now managing the Youths Section at Juventus)  
> Inzaghi = Filippo "Pippo" Inzaghi, former AC Milan and Italy NT striker (currently Bologna FC's coach)  
> Rino = Gennaro "Rino" Gattuso, former AC Milan and Italy NT defensive midfielder (currently AC Milan's coach)  
> Coverciano = Training centre of Italy NT based in the vicinity of Florence


End file.
